Tattoo Nation.

When was it, exactly, when "bad" became "good," and "sick" became "cool?"
"Wow, that is sick," the kid says.
The kid means whatever he's looking at is very impressive. He likes it. "Sick" is not a pejorative adjective, it's a compliment.
My father used to say something like, "The bigger the tattoo, the smaller the brain," which I thought was pretty funny--and probably true.

My Grandfather Davis (on the maternal side), had a tattoo on each of his forearms. One was a naked woman with dark Godiva hair flowing discreetly past her lower buttocks, and the other I can't remember. I always think of the second one as an anchor, because my brothers and I swore Grampa Davis looked exactly like Popeye. His farmer sleeves were always rolled up, and when he popped out his dentures, squinted one eye and jut out his jaw, bald head sprouting minimal hairs, we screamed with delight. Stand by, Olive Oyl! Watch out, Bluto!

We loved him and his antics. But, how come my father damned the tattooed bikers on West Pearl St.and never said a disparaging word about Grampa's epidermic artwork? I don't know.
In my experimental high school years, I got drunk one day with a gang of buddies who decided that getting a tattoo was exactly the thing we should do that day. We piled into one car and drove to the nearest tattoo parlor, which, in those days, was located halfway across the state. Still, despite all the braggadocio, I knew I wouldn't do it--not even drunk. My father would consider me an idiot, which I always avoided at all costs. The tattoo parlor was closed, but two of my buddies went back a week later to do the deed, only to get their asses kicked by enraged parents.

Anyway, based on my observations, I never cared much for tattoos, although some of the art is excellent, and a girl with a pretty butterfly on her shoulder blade can be charming. The clean, sharp-edged drawings turn too soon into blurry blotches. They look good when they're fresh, when someone says, "Check out my new tattoo," but from there it's downhill. Even six feet away, you can't tell what they represent. They just look like severe skin blotches or accidental birthmarks. Get enough tattoos and you'll look like you got splashed by a truck driving through a mud puddle.

Worst of all, tattoo aficionados seem to be attracted to evil images, barbed wire, creatures with fangs, vociferous dragons and slimy snakes. Women have better taste, with their butterflies, flowers and angels, but--who needs it?

Wedding From the Heavens.

My niece's wedding was scheduled for 5 pm at one of the most exclusive settings in southern New Hampshire, an outdoor ceremony tucked under beautiful oaks and maples, with lush, rolling lawns and sweet-smelling little gardens all around.

The weather forecasts were ominous, but the day progressed beautifully--and hopefully--until about 4 pm. Then, about the time most of the guests were climbing into their cars to get to the wedding, the dark clouds rolled over and the heavens opened up, sending down a deluge of huge, heavily splashing raindrops, darkening and drenching everything under the sky.

The staff inside the Bedford Village Inn scrambled to move the reception tables to make room for rows of chairs separated by a middle aisle, while an excellent chamber orchestra treated us to classical music on tender strings. Then, after only a brief delay, the groom, Bobby Condon, appeared and strode down the aisle with a folded umbrella, like a parade rifle propped on his shoulder, which inspired a huge round of cheers from the guests, followed by his best men, all with umbrellas at the ready.
The bride, Ellice St. Laurent, my brother's daughter, appeared moments later. The girl is beautiful in any clothing, but in her feminine white wedding dress and glowing smile, she dazzled the guests with good taste and composure. "Beautiful," was all they could say, all in agreement.
After heartfelt vows, the Best Man took the floor to deliver a monologue worthy of an HBO Comedy Special, full of warm memories of the bride and groom--and Maid of Honor Christel St. Laurent, the bride's sister, topped the champagne toast with a loving tribute that brought tears and cheers all over the room.
From there, as we enjoyed exotic appetizers and exceptionally rich buffets full of pasta variations, roast beef and finessed potatoes, the reception got under way with a rockin' deejay, the party fueled, no doubt, by the open bar--Yeah! Free booze!

Then, just as the celebration approached getting crazy with happiness, the heavens opened up again. Lightening flashed through the windows, thunder intruded and the power went out. No light. No music. Emergency spotlights flared as the crowd groaned. "Where's the bride," I worried, "What is she thinking?"

Not to worry. One of the groom's men shouted out and started a singalong with a familiar song, no doubt based on the lyric, "The day the music died," from American Pie. He never let it die, and the guests joined in   joyfully to sing several popular songs. Somehow, within about fifteen minutes, the Inn powered-up one circuit, enough to light the bar and resurrect the deejay and his speakers.
And the party rocked on.
The dance floor was full, and my old knees started to ache, but my girlfriend, Gayle, in a beautiful mauve gown, was hot to boogie, so I jumped in and I loved the celebration. Most inspiring was that I saw the bride still smiling and glowing, greeting admiring guests. If she had lost heart, broken down, it would have cast a pall over the room, but she beamed in her beautiful dress and inspired us.

Hey! As long as she's happy, we were happy. So, we danced and chased the bride and groom for more photos. Candlelight flickered everywhere and the candles migrated out to the patio where smokers took comfort in the dark, and the rain stopped.
Gayle and I finally went home, happy and exhausted, as all.

For great photos of this storybook wedding, see this link: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151202216935239&set=a.10151202216865239.501354.514205238&type=1&theater

Gallery: Roses and Purple.

Oil painting by T. St. Laurent, 18" x 22."

The Old Diner.

From time to time, I wax nostalgic. If you're a baby boomer (born between 1946 and 1964?), you probably remember your favorite diner, and it was probably one of those long, narrow, chrome-and-neon-decorated burger-and-fries joints with architecture inspired by railroad dining cars. There are lots of modern imitations recalling the Fifties, but chances are the diner you loved in high school now looks about like this:

My favorite is gone, torn down by progress, but here's an old photo of the Yankee Flyer on Main St. in Nashua NH:

The influence of railroad cars on the design is obvious, including the name "Flyer."  The name "Arrow" is another common name for these popular jukebox habitats. In fact, one of the town's railroad tracks crossed Main St. in Nashua about six feet away from the foundation of the diner, barely visible in the far side of the photo. This track carried the freight train my brothers and I used to hop almost daily, just for the fun of getting chased away by railroad workers. A few years after my freight car rides, the "Flyer" became the watering hole of choice for underclass malcontents like myself looking for--GIRLS! We met them there, piled into cars driven by good buddies and drove to dark lanes to "make out," paired off by.natural selection. The trysts never went beyond lip-locks and minor feelies, as far as I know. Girls got pregnant in other places, privately.
One of my best memories is of walking down the aisle at the Yankee Flyer toward a booth full of girls hearing Roy Orbison on the jukebox. The note Roy hit was the best note I heard on a jukebox until Whitney Houston sang  "And I...," many, many years later.
Sounded like this, on the word "all." We're talking Golden Throats!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NcGzwyTvkIQ

Idiots in the World--Then, There's Me and Elvis.

I got my first real job when I was 12 or 13--six hours of washing dishes at Caron's Restaurant on Friday nights, courtesy of my best pal, Ronnie Caron. His father, my boss, a very short, stocky but powerful little man with glasses and huge shoulders, was known around town as "Shorty" Caron, as in, "Don't mess with Shorty," who had a tall, kind of elegant wife. Being pals with Ronnie meant not only that I got a job, but that I could shoot pool down the hall from the expansive bedrooms in his big house and listen to the discarded antique jukebox from the restaurant, free, which had only about eight selections in it, enough to make me happy by far. On Friday nights, Ronnie ascended to "assistant chef" while I clattered the dishes. The best perk, though, was the free meal, prepared by Ronnie, usually a huge pile of fried clams and fries, coleslaw on the side and a glass of milk heavily sweetened from the front fountain.

The dreaded moment on Friday night was when Shorty paid a surprise visit to the kitchen, which shouldn't have been a surprise. I always hoped he wouldn't arrive at mealtime, when we appeared most idle. "Where's all the milk," he'd growl, after inspecting the premises. A restaurant doesn't really need much milk, but I'd hunker down and shut up because--yes--I drank a lot of that milk, with sweet syrup enough to kill a moose.

My duties included preparing the coleslaw, peeling the potatoes and operating the french fry cutter. I was amazed by how coleslaw is made. I prepared it with carefully washed hands on an expansive butcher table, plunging my hands into a massive mound of shredded cabbage and carrots to add huge gobs of mayonnaise from a gallon jar, holding my hands up sometimes like glorious pitchforks of hay from my grandfather's farm. Meanwhile, however, I might have left the potatoes in the peeler too long. I sometimes rushed into the rear kitchen to rescue potatoes. The peeler consisted of a little barrel that automatically ground the spuds around inside a gritty surface, and if you left them in this vortex too long, they would peel to the size of marbles, no use as french fries. As I threw these marbles into the garbage and loaded another batch of big potatoes, I prayed, "Don't let Shorty come now."

There were real idiots at Caron's Restaurant. Senior assistant chef, "Sonny" Michaud, was a true jackass. He bet someone that he dared to plunge his hand up to the elbow in the deep fryer, where food gets browned and smoke lingers.He walked around with a bandaged arm for weeks.
Most surprising, Shorty bet someone that he could drive a spike (a 12d nail) into a slab of wood with the palm of his hand. Okay, he wrapped his hand with several cloth napkins, and after several whacks with little result, he gave it his all and saw the head of the spike penetrate the cloth and erupt on the topside of his hand, blood and all, right through.

They're all stupid, I thought. But, I didn't mind. It was fun, especially when I could hang out at Caron's Restaurant any time I wanted, spending half my paycheck on the jukebox, listening to stuff like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJTRMJMES1c

Remember?

Remember when you where a kid?
I do.
Remember when your intense emotions overwhelmed your tiny experience?
I do.
Remember when you you could cry, tragically, over the injustice of getting sent to bed when your favorite television show was just coming on?
I do.
Remember when your teachers at school treated you like just another piece of meat?
Pink Floyd did:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YR5ApYxkU-U

Personal note: The parochial school where I was punished more often than not burned to the ground when I was a young man in the Navy. Couldn't say I was sorry.